


The Broken Detective.

by caringis_notanadvantage



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-12
Updated: 2013-08-12
Packaged: 2017-12-23 07:41:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/923684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caringis_notanadvantage/pseuds/caringis_notanadvantage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At first it was the silence. </p><p>A silence so thick it covered every inch of the flat, every noise.</p><p>John adjusts to life after Sherlock returns from the death. </p><p>However, things are not the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Broken Detective.

**Author's Note:**

> This one has been underway for a long, long time.. I kept on rewriting it and changing the ending and generally this fic has been a pain in my ass. 
> 
> Hopefully you all won't think that it sucks. 
> 
> so here we go.

At first it was the silence.

 

A silence so thick it covered every inch of the flat, every noise.

 

No footsteps could be heard.

 

No birds.

 

No cars.

 

The steady breathing of the form on the sofa did not even manage to break the barrier of silence that 221B seemed to have been covered in ever since the dead had found a way to return to the land of the living.

 

Mrs Hudson went about with her day, just as she had always done.

 

A cuppa made here, some biscuits baked there.

 

Not even the daily bustle from the landlady, _not the housekeeper,_ managed to reach the doors of the gravely silent upstairs flat.

 

This was what met John Watson, as he returned to 221B for good after three years of absence.

 

Of avoidance.

 

Silence.

 

Leaning against the doorframe, he looked at the once-again living detective.

 

Too thin and too pale.

 

Too bloody tired.

 

Glassy eyes staring ahead, but not quite seeing anything.

 

John had been used to the quiet days.

 

_'Sometimes I don't talk for days on end'_

 

The days when Sherlock’s head was shouting so loudly that all he could do was to lie on the sofa and wait for it to pass.

 

The days spend in a dressing gown on the sofa with empty stares at the ridiculous wallpaper.

 

However, this was not only a quiet day.

 

This was slowly turning into a quiet week.

 

No talking, no interaction.

 

Just a silent detective.

 

If you could even call him that anymore.

 

John let his bag drop to the floor, and immediately the sound was swallowed by the black, soundless vacuum of the flat.

 

“Cuppa, Sherlock?” The question was softly uttered for the fear of rattling him.

 

Which made John feel ridiculous, for who could rattle the all-seeing Sherlock Holmes?

 

No response.

 

“Okay then.” said on the intake.

 

John went into the kitchen. If he was going to face a far-off Sherlock, he might as well do it with the familiarity of tea.

 

“John?”

 

The funny thing was that it was not whispered. One would’ve thought that having been quiet for over a week would have had an effect on the vocal chords.

 

In all fairness it should have had.

 

But Sherlock always had to be the different.

 

“Yeah?” A light voice, trying very hard not to show too much excitement. John’s hand rested on the handle of the fridge, just about to open it.

 

“There’s no milk.” This should have made John sigh, possibly roll his eyes and then laugh, because it was typical.

 

But.

 

The voice hadn’t been filled with a smirk. There was no hidden mirth beneath what was probably one of the biggest on-going debates in 221B.

 

* * *

 

 

There was emptiness.

 

Then came the uncharacteristic flinching mess.

 

After what John would end up dubbing ‘the-big-silence-of-2015’, Sherlock threw himself into his experiments with more passion than John had ever witnessed before.

 

The kitchen was packed with chemicals, petri dishes and samples fluids that John would rather stay in the unknown about. The fridge was once again filled with thumbs, toes and severed limbs.

 

It was all back to normal.

 

Except that it wasn’t.

 

Because whilst the experiments were back, a new feature had been added to them.

 

The breaking of test tubes.

 

At first John didn’t think anything of it.

 

At first he just thought that they were coincidences.

 

But then a test tube fell as the doorbell rang.

 

Another because of a loud car horn.

 

One, because John yelled at the telly.

 

The biggest crash happened on an unassuming Sunday morning.

 

Sherlock leaning over his microscope looking at some foul smelling substance.

 

John, walking down the stairs, having just changed into the clothes of the day.

 

“Sherlock, are you up for going out for some breakfast?” Perhaps it was asked a bit louder than normal, perhaps John should have whispered it.

 

But it was Sunday, and a sunny one at that, and he was still trying to figure out how to re-establish the friendship that had suffered so severely.

 

And more importantly John was happy.

 

An emotion he had all but forgotten.

 

Which made the reaction all the more unsettling.

 

As soon as the words had left John’s mouth, the detective flinched. Violently. So much that the book he had been holding flew out of his hands and managed to not only hit, but also break three test tubes.

 

The noise from this created a new flinch, which made Sherlock back away from the table.

 

Right into the kitchen counter.

 

Right into vials and beakers.

 

More crashing.

 

More noise.

 

More flinching, more crashing; a continuous circle that never really seemed to stop.

 

John, frozen on the staircase.

 

Sherlock, in the middle of destruction.

 

Until it was quiet; except that it wasn’t.

 

Laboured breathing filled the flat.

 

Feet on steps.

 

“Sherlock. You’re bleeding.” Whispered with the hope of being calming.

 

“N-no.” Stuttered through a hitched breath. Sherlock was avoiding eye contact by looking at the floor.

 

“Yes, you are. Now let me take a look at it.”

 

Carefully measured steps over shards of glass.

 

More hitched breaths.

 

“Sherlock. Look at me.” No more whispering, this was an order.

 

Suddenly the differences between Captain, Doctor and Friend became fluid.

 

Slowly, so very slowly Sherlock lifted his head to look at John and he saw almost made him take a step back.

 

Almost.

 

There was no shame.

 

No anger.

 

No. What John Watson saw was raw fear.

 

* * *

 

Next came the cases.

 

Or perhaps more correctly the lack of them.

 

In the beginning John understood.

 

The Yard didn’t want anything to do with the man who had cheated death.

 

With the man they had wrongly accused of fraud.

 

Lestrade didn’t want to work together with the man, who had been the cause of his suspension.

 

But months passed.

 

Sherlock’s name had been cleared. The Yard had issued a public apology.

 

Things were ready to return to normal.

 

John was ready to return to their idea of normal.

 

To big rants about the idiocy of the average copper, to chases across London. To the thrill of the possibility of having to use the gun on a criminal.

 

None of these things happened.

 

Sherlock just kept on doing his experiments.

 

Now with less flinching than before, which had more to do with John taking care of being visible and keeping the noise level down, than anything else.

 

But he did them quietly.

 

There was no big sulk.

 

No rants about the lack of proper criminals nowadays.

 

No loud ‘BORED!’ yelled across the flat.

 

No shooting at walls.

 

Just the bloody experiments and a consulting detective that seemed to have lost any interest in a job he once considered himself married to.

 

John tried to be patient. To be understanding.

 

But it was hard.

 

His life had been ripped apart and he had been forced to rebuild it from scratch.

 

New flat.

 

Started working full time at the clinic so he could be able to pay for said new flat.

 

John’s life became boring.

 

Grey, dull.

 

But he dealt with it like a proper Englishman and simply carried on.

 

But here he was three years later, and he had the possibility of going back to the excitement and thrill of walking with Sherlock Holmes.

 

And yet…

 

Life was still dull and grey.

 

Full of silence, a tremor and a leg that hurt even though it was perfectly fine.

 

It was certainly not what John had hoped for when he had first moved back into 221B.

 

“Sherlock… Have you…” Quietly, haltingly as he gained the attention of Sherlock, “Have you heard from L-lestrade?” wanting to have eye contact, yet not daring to, he stared at the paper in front of him.

 

“He called yesterday when you were out buying groceries.” Said off-handily.

 

“Oh?” trying to copy the nonchalance of the detective, John went for the more passive approach.

 

“Yes. They, of course, needed my help. I, however, told them that I didn’t want to cause any suspicions about foul play, so I thought it better that they solved it on their own. And, as you know, I am terribly busy.” Nonchalant, with just a pinch of sarcasm.

 

Oh, how it sounded like the old Sherlock.

 

But there was no smirk.

 

Just a man staring into that bloody microscope.

 

“Busy doing what exactly?” Keep the resentment away. Stay calm. No yelling.

 

Stay. Calm.

 

“Experiments. I know that you’ve grown older, John, But surely, you are still able to see.” Still not looking up.

 

“Oh yes, Experiments. Why are they so important? Hmm? Are you trying to find a cure for cancer? Or are you once again studying the coagulation of blood post-mortem? Lestrade would only call if he was out of his depth, so what is so bloody important that you cannot find the time to help him?” He was not yelling.

 

He was absolutely _not_ yelling.

 

“Lestrade doesn’t need me. He has told me countless of times. The last being only a day before I returned.” Sherlock was definitely _not_ sneering at him.

 

“Sherlock…”

 

“No. As he told me, he made Detective Inspector on his own, so why would he need a consulting detective?” Mumbled.

 

Already back to the microscope again.

 

Although, that did not sound like Lestrade.

 

“When did he say this?”

 

“On the day before I returned. Honestly, John… Don’t you listen? You know how I hate repetition.” But that would mean…

 

Lestrade had said it as he found out that Sherlock hadn’t died.

 

_Oh, Sherlock._

 

“I hit you, when you came back from the dead. I called you a bastard and told you to never show your face again. Do you hold that against me?” Incredulous was the best emotion to describe John.

 

Silence.

 

“Sherlock, you can’t believe- … I mean… I _was_ angry. But I came back didn’t I? Sherlock?” John’s voice was slowly rising in desperation.

 

He couldn’t possibly believe that.

 

“Sherlock?” A sudden turn of the head and Sherlock was staring harshly at John.

 

“Stop talking. Of course, I don’t believe that. Now shut up and let me work!” And he turned back to that microscope.

 

Though not before John got a look at his face.

 

Gone was the cold mask and in place was a vulnerable, lost expression that would haunt John for a long time.

* * *

 

In the end it was the scars.

 

Oh, he hid them well.

 

Underneath those blazers, the long-sleeved tailored shirts, and the dressing gowns.

 

No more walking around on bare feet, always wearing shoes.

 

But even the Great Sherlock Holmes could be caught off guard.

 

There was the Tuesday with the messy experiment that resulted in folded up sleeves and the absences of a blazer.

 

Scars littered Sherlock’s arms and for one frightening moment John thought this was Sherlock’s own doing.

 

But then he looked closer, as much as he could from his place next to the kettle.

 

And the scars were old.

 

And messy.

 

Not done with the precision that Sherlock Holmes put into everything.

 

That realisation did nothing to qualm John’s fears.

 

For they only gave way for a more important question:

 

Who had then given Sherlock those scares?

* * *

There was the day John came home late from work to find Sherlock in a strop on the sofa.

 

Dressed in his pyjamas and dressing gown.

 

Sans socks.

 

John sat down in his chair, picking up the paper, trying hard not to further along the sulk.

 

But something made John make a double take of the detective.

 

His feet.

 

His severely scarred feet.

 

Burn marks?

 

No.

 

Yes?

 

Fuck.

 

John tried to not think about it.

 

But a picture was rapidly painting itself in his mind, and he feared what the end result would look like.

* * *

 

John knew.

 

He _knew_.

 

Afghanistan had shown him the horrors of humanity and it stuck with him.

 

Oh, Sherlock had managed to drag John out of the hellish nightmares that seemed to follow well into daytime.

 

But the things he had witnessed.

 

The bombs.

 

The gunshots.

 

And the victims.

 

John knew what to look for, which was why he knew.

 

Sherlock never talked about those three years. Not a single word.

 

Mycroft had indicated that Moriarty would never be a problem again. He'd talked about Sherlock dismantling the consulting criminals web, but that was it.

 

No details of where and how.

 

Just that it was over.

 

So when he one day came home from work early, and managed to catch Sherlock in a moment of solitude and openness.

 

A Sherlock walking around in only his pyjamas trousers sans shirt.

 

Sherlock covered in scars that more than John ever needed to know.

 

Scars that broke his heart.

 

Everything stopped.

 

Sherlock, like a deer caught in the headlights.

 

John, trying so very hard to not stare.

 

"Say it then." The words hissed.

 

"No."

 

"Oh come on. I've seen how you've studied me for the last months. Obvious. You know you want to, so you might as well just come out and say it." The rising tone only revealed vulnerability.

 

"You... don't need me to tell you."

 

"Don't give me that. Just say it."

 

He's only baiting.

 

Don't.

 

Stay quiet.

 

"Fine."

 

_Damn._

 

"Then I'll say it, I may not be the Great Sherlock Holmes, but I am not stupid. This subdued version of you clearly indicates that something happened during your years of… absence. Add the flinching in reaction to loud noises and then there’s an outline of textbook trauma forming. Then the avoidance of normalcy. No cases. No going out, just locking yourself up in this flat. Two days without a case before would have had you shooting up the walls and making life bloody miserable for the rest of us, but not anymore."

 

"John..."

 

"Oh I am almost finished, might as well keep on going. And then there are the scars. I am not stupid, but I know the scars of a torture victim when I see them. I know the look. I know that type of flinching. I. Know. So the big question is: are we just going to keep on ignoring this or ..." John trailed off as he suddenly lost his steam.

 

"Or what John? Fix me? Send me to a psychologist? Trust me, you are too late. My dear brother has already given me the speech, told me of the _specialists_. No need."

 

"Yes of course, I can see how well ignoring it is working out for you."

 

"Thank you."

 

"You know what? Fine, then we'll just ignore it. Just like we ignored my PTSD."

 

"Yes"

 

"Except that we didn't. Chasing cabs, forgetting canes, playing violin whenever I had a nightmare. You're right, we ignored it."

 

Sarcasm.

 

The narrowing of eyes.

 

'What do you prescribe then, Doctor Watson?' 

* * *

 

Life went on.

 

With flinching.

 

With silence.

 

Yelling matches and cuppas in abundance.

 

Sherlock stubbornly held on to the importance of his experiments until Lestrade all but tore down the door, yelled at Sherlock for 10 minutes straight about people's life being at stake and then throwing case files on the desk and leaving.

 

Oh, he avoided them.

 

For a week.

 

But it was one thing to avoid cases when they were hidden out of sight at the Yard; it was a completely different thing to manage when they were in the flat.

 

So yes, life went on.

 

With cases, with insulting Anderson and with ridiculously daring chases.

 

And if Sherlock turned down a case, because it reminded him of ... Something?

 

They ignored it. 


End file.
